


Through the Wire

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-04
Updated: 2006-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete gets a phonecall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pete snapped his head up groggily and stared out of his open bedroom door, straight into the living room, where he could see that insanely red phone Andy had bought in a thrift store the other day. This red phone had rung four fucking times in the past half hour. _Four times_. They didn't have any voicemail, and the phone, instead of stopping after a few rings like the previous calls, continued.

Pete dragged himself out of the messy bed, his head swimming, rubbing at both eyes with one hand. He slid down the wall to the floor beside the phone-table and snatched the earpiece off its cradle.

"This better be a fucking emergency," he snarled into the phone, and there was a shocked silence from the other end. Pete had about three seconds to wonder if it was his mother before the dude spoke up in one of the nicest voices he ever heard in a long time.

"No....not really. Hello."

"Hello," Pete replied automatically, and then thumped the back of his head against the wall; his mother had taught him too well. He scowled. "Well. _What_?"

"Oh, yeah," the person responded, and there was a tinge of amusement in that lovely voice. It was not so deep, but it had such a sweet cadence. "Is Joe there?"

Pete groaned. Just his luck to pick up a call that wasn't even for a person that _lived_ there, much less for him. Joe was some kid almost out of high school that was probably the biggest fan Andy ever had. Andy, being Andy, took it all in stride and actually hung out with the kid, and Joe visited the apartment he and Andy shared a lot. Scratch that: Joe was practically _furniture_ , and only giggled gleefully when Pete pointedly asked him if his parents minded that he hung around college guys so much.

"No. He went to check out some show with my housemate. But for the record: Joe Doesn't Live Here," he snapped and the voice on the other end simply laughed smoothly. Pete, in spite of his supreme bad mood, found himself tuning into that laugh. 

"I _know_ that. But it looks like he might as well...he actually gave me this number if I ever wanted to find him."

Pete rolled his pained eyes. He was feeling a little better, though. Maybe this kid's voice was magic.

"So. You wanna leave like a message or something?"

"Yeah, sure. Tell him Patrick called about practice tonight."

"Patrick, practice, ok, got it. _Bye_." Pete actually had the phone moving away from his ear when Patrick spoke up again. He put it back. "What was that?"

"I was asking if you were sick or something. You sound funny."

"How would _you_ know how I normally sound? This is the first time we've ever spoken."

"Well? Are you or aren't you?" Patrick pressed. This kid was almost as annoying as Joe, mused Pete. Only with a sweeter voice.

"Yeah. I have the 'flu," he finally ground out, and suddenly he poured out everything. "My eyes are killing me, man. My heart is beating like I'm living in a horror movie, my limbs feel like someone beat the shit out of me using a dump-truck and I have this crazy kid on the phone asking for another crazy kid who treats my fridge like his personal buffet. On top of that, I have three exams this week that I haven't studied for, and those finals are gonna kick my ass."

Silence again. Pete closed his aching eyes. Who knew your _eyeballs_ could feel hot?

"Sorry to hear that, dude," Patrick came back soothingly. "You want me drag my grandmother over there to make some chicken soup for you? I have to tie her up though, she's pretty feisty."

Pete burst into laughter. That one was pretty ripe. He could just imagine some old lady yelling and cussing as she was forced to cook soup. His laughter dissolved into sharp coughs and he heard Patrick apologising over the line.

"Nah. It's ok....actually, I feel a little better. Maybe you should call me for the rest of the week and help me out."

"Maybe I will. And your exams, man. I'm sure you know your stuff."

Really, he did. Pete was just bitching, and he told Patrick so.

"See? Hey, whats your name? I feel funny you know mine and I don't know who I'm talking to."

"Pete."

"Pete. From Arma? Joe talks fucking non- _stop_ about you guys."

Pete grinned.

"Yeah...hope he told you we suck hairy balls."

Patrick chuckled. Yow...nice chuckle.

"I don't know about you and balls, but Joe has pretty good taste. Although it's driving me a little batshit to hear him get all Shakespearian about your drummer. Andy, right?"

"Got it on one."

"Ok. Look, get some rest. I'm really sorry to bother you...and good luck with your exams."

Pete smiled, twisting the curled red wire of the earpiece.

"It's cool. Tell the truth, you're probably the most effective medicine I've had all day."

He could actually feel the grin pressing out of the phone.

"I've been told I can be pretty charming and magical," he replied, and Pete laughed again. "Take care, Pete. From Arma."

"You too. Patrick...from...somewhere."

He heard Patrick laughing and then the kid hung up. He replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at it.

Patrick.

From somewhere.

Nice.

  



	2. Chapter 2

That first call was on Monday.

Patrick called him again on Tuesday and they had the weirdest thirty minute conversation about David Bowie ever. He called Patrick at his part-time job late Wednesday evening (some record-store named Marble...go figure) and they had another super-long conversation, this time about Joe's lecture he was giving everybody about the true meaning of The Force.

Joe came over to the apartment on Thursday, much to Pete's amused annoyance. Andy was a naturally brilliant bastard, and so could afford to lollygag around with Joe without studying; but Pete felt he had to go over all his notes in unsure desperation.

He heard the other two laughing their asses off at that show ( _what show was it again? He could hear it clearly from here....oh yeah..."Whose Line Is is Anyway?")._ He was just considering throwing Joe out so he could get a chance just to _think_ , when the phone rang. Joe picked it up while he was in the middle of a loud horsey laugh. _Maybe_ , Pete thought, _I should just ask that bitch to pay rent._

"Yeah? Hey, dude......yeah, yeah, I'll be there in a couple of hours....who? Pete? How do _you_ know _Pete_?............ok, hold on."

Joe groaned himself out of the dangerously comfortable sofa, and walked into Pete's bedroom, pulling the whole phone unit with him, the long extension cord trailing behind.

"It's for you."

"Me? _Really_? The phone rang in _my_ apartment for _me_? You don't say!" Pete grabbed the phone from Joe's hands, rolling his eyes at him, and Joe exited, bawling at Andy: "Is he ALWAYS this big of an asshole?"

"Nah. Only on Thursdays. Maybe Tuesdays..Fridays too....usually Sundays-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Peter yelled, not realising that he had put the phone to his ear.

"Who? Me? I haven't even _said_ anything to you as yet," Patrick said warmly and Pete grinned.

"No, no, not you. Andy and Joe are here upsetting my study vibe." Pete leaned back in the old swivel chair that Andy had swiped for him from the dump. He put down his pen and rubbed the back of his head with one palm. Getting a little long in the back there ( _probably growing into what Andy called a sweet mullet..."cause all mullets are sweet."_ ).

Patrick laughed.

"So how do you feel? Still sick...or do I have to get the rope out for my Nana? And your exams?"

"No, man, you can leave your Nana alone. I feel better." Pete looked down at his Macroeconomics notes. "I had an exam on Tuesday and one today which didn't go so bad. The last one tomorrow, and then summer holidays with the band. It's gonna be sweet. Hey, aren't you still in high school?"

"You can call it that. This is our final year, and I don't know what exactly I want to do after the summer. I'm not mad-smart like you, doing...what was it Joe said? Oh yeah, PoliSci. Only people of genius caliber can do that."

Pete snorted in self-scorn. He wasn't even near genius. Andy was the asshole pulling three majors and making it look like pre-school.

"I'm more into music," Patrick continued, and Pete sat up, his interest piqued. "You know Joe and I are in a band, right?"

"Yeah, so I heard. Joe says you're pretty good."

"Oh, we're ok."

"No. _You're_ pretty good. Drums, rhythm guitar, bass, lyrics, melodies? You're a born musicmaker, according to your mooching pal."

There was a slight embarassed pause and then he could almost feel Patrick shrug.

"Well.....Joe showed me this thing you wrote for the university paper. It was pretty deep, man. It put my lyrics to shame."

Pete had a slight moment of confusion, and then he latched on.

"Oh. You mean that last fake-prose thing? What was it called...oh yeah, some depressing shit...'Fridays are my Last Days'...those weren't really lyrics, man."

"No? I put them to music anyway."

Pete registered a strange mixture of shock, wariness and a deep-seated pleased glow. His words, words he didn't even use for Arma, were floating around somewhere linked to someone else's music. He wasn't quite sure what to think.

"I hope you don't mind," and here Patrick's voice lost some of its relaxed confidence during Pete's silence. "Would-would you like to hear some of it?"  
Pete took a chance. How bad could it be?

When he gave his assent, Patrick told him to hold on while he got his guitar. Pete idly scribbled large circles on the back of his notebook until Patrick came back on the line.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

Patrick sang.

Pete was overwhelmed.

Overwhelming Reason #1: Patrick had taken his lines and broke them here, pushed them there, and fitted them neatly and snugly into a deceptively simple melody. He found himself imagining the bassline to it as Patrick played softly.

Overwhelming Reason #2: Patrick's voice: It was singularly the most beautiful thing he had ever heard; miles away from his screamo when he performed with Arma, it climbed the scales effortlessly and bungee-jumped back down to the low tenor. Pete's skin melted into goose-pimples, and he even shivered a bit when Patrick finished the last bridge and ended the song.

"Whoa," he croaked out, when he managed to locate his voice. "That-that was fucking fantastic."

"Do you know what I think you were _really_ writing about?" Patrick questioned softly, completely disregarding the compliment.

"What?"

"It's about.....how can I say it....about sometimes _not_ being attracted to girls, right?"

Pete went into a full-stop. How did he know?

"How did I know?" Patrick echoed and Pete was this close to asking Patrick to kindly climb out of his head, please. "That's how I read it...of course, I could be wrong. It really, well, sort of spoke to what its like for me too."

"Oh....well..."

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, now, dude. I suppose you didn't mean it that-"

"I did...I was just surprised that you picked up on it. I thought I hid it behind all those words."

Patrick gave another of those low laughs that Pete was currently finding akin to the sound of the Siren.

"I told you I was magically charming, man." Suddenly Patrick's tone of voice changed from warm to brisk. "Um...Pete...my father wants to use the phone. I'll talk to you some other time, ok?"

Before he could respond, Patrick had hung up quickly, leaving Pete with a sweaty grip on the phone.

"Ok, " he replied to the dialtone.

He hung up.

And tried not to feel too eager to talk to Patrick again as he returned to his notebook.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Pete was just walking out the door with Andy, jiggling the apartment keys in one hand, when the phone jangled shrilly. Andy grinned at him.

"How much do you bet that’s your call, dude?"

"It better be," Pete muttered, and Andy laughed out loud.

"How much of a girl can you _be_? Make it quick, though. We got to soundcheck and play in a few."

"Yeah, yeah… Hello?" Pete perched on the wobbly phone-table, making a self-note to get Andy to fix it. _Pete_? Hold a _hammer_? Bite your tongue.

"Hey, Pete."

Pete smiled and closed his eyes briefly. This was the voice he had actually been waiting to hear all day. It was amazing how after a few conversations that voice had actually seeped into his pores and zipped straight into his bloodstream.

"Hey...you hung up on me pretty fast last night, dude."

"I wanted to tell you sorry about that. I'm at my father's house and he was bitching about the phone shit...sorry."

"No, it's ok. Hey, we're performing at the Rounder Inn in about two hours. I wanted to invite you. It's semi-free."

Patrick sighed, heavy and tired, and Pete felt a little breathless...he was going to say no.

"I think I can make it, maybe. Maybe I can convince my father that I'm going with Joe...he's been on my case recently, about college and shit...saying making music isn't making a living."

Pete scoffed.

"What does he know about making music?" Pete mused aloud and Patrick agreed.

"It's just that since things have been going ok for us now, he's suddenly all interested in what's going on. He never was before. I mean, _he_ left _us_...but you don't need to hear this, Pete."

"Maybe you need to get it out, though."

There was a thick pause, and then Patrick inhaled and exhaled deeply, shakily. Pete unconciously breathed with him, and then Patrick begun.

"My music is my life. Surprisingly, my step-dad is the one who's encouraging about it. _He's_ the one who bought me my first drumkit. _He's_ the one that drove me around to see shows. _He's_ the one who actually knows how I feel about....about relationships and shit. My step-dad is the one who raised me, you know?"

Pete could tell that Patrick was on the brink of something and could only murmur comforting sounds. He really couldn't relate: his mother and father were still happily married, and were proud of anything he did. ( _Do your best. We're behind you all the way_.)

But as cocky and as disgusting as Pete could get, he was a great listener. He was good at things like that.

"I love my step-dad, man. He's the one I call Dad," Patrick continued, his voice steadying. "But my father is still my _father_ too...its just that he gets so fucking _overbearing_ , sometimes."

Pete was silent for a few moments, listening to Patrick's breathing calm down.

"Feel any better? I bet you do, just getting that out."

He grinned as Patrick chuckled, and he heard him shift on the other end.

"You know what? I do...and I bet I'm gonna feel better at the show tonight."

Pete raised up gingerly off the straining table.

"So...I'll see you then? I have to go now, though...Andy is practically sitting on the horn in the van now."

"I can hear him, actually. Yeah, I'll be there. And Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

***

How much fun could one Pete have? Really.

The music pounding through him, the crowd shrieking as he knelt on the stage, microphone pressed to mouth. The emotion practically cannonballed out of him as he screamed out the familiar lyrics.

Oh man. Was this the fucking life or _what_? He could hear Andy drumming fiercely behind him, and he could feel the pulse of the bass-drum push through his body and into his chest, dominating his heart.

Pete loved this shit.

He just fucking loved it. He was made for it, truly.

When they finally clambered off the stage and into the crowd, Pete was grabbed from all sides. He was grinning like a madman, but he was also busy looking around for Joe. For Patrick.

He was nearly at the edge of the crushing crowd when he saw Joe leaning up on the wall near one of the monitor speakers. Beside him stood another kid, in a trucker cap and a strange pair of black thick-rimmed glasses, half turned away from Pete's view. This kid took off the glasses, and when Joe poked him on the shoulder and pointed in Pete's direction, he turned and looked.

Ah.

There was the face behind that fantastic voice. It matched. Sweet.

The house-lights came up and he got a better view. Patrick's hair was a light reddish-blonde, long around his slightly rounded face, his skin a surprising creamy hue. He wasn't skinny, a real sturdy short body, and Pete approved. Patrick's slanted eyes were open wide, and the intensity plus the colour (green? blue?) had Pete gazing for a good ten seconds as Patrick stared back. Then Patrick smiled warmly, and Pete grinned, starting towards them again.

There was something wrong though. He wasn't moving forward so easily. Oh, fuck, someone had put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. Andy..oh, come _on_....

"Pete," Andy strangled out, and Pete really saw the stark panic in his eyes, "Ty. He got in a fight, man. That fucker got himself stabbed...we have to get him to the hospital, like _now_."

Shit. WHY was it that fucking guitarist couldn't keep his ass out of trouble? Pete snapped his head around to where Patrick was waiting, a small frown shadowing the pale skin on his face.

 _I'm sorry_ , he mouthed at Patrick, raising a hand as if he could just touch him. Patrick returned a small nod, leaning back on the wall as Pete turned and followed Andy through the press of bodies.

***

"So he's okay, then?" Patrick asked sleepily, his voice floating through the earpiece, gently folding itself into Pete's ear. Peter was curled up on his side in the sofa, comforted by the gentle sound. He wasn't quite sure of the time. Patrick had called him a little after he stumbled into the appartment, still too keyed up to sleep.

"Yeah. The medics said it was just a pretty bad flesh-wound. I cussed him out though. I sorta wanted to talk to you. No, I _really_ wanted to talk to you."

"How much different would it be from talking to me now?"

"Well...I could have seen how much I could make you blush." Pete decided to turn up the charm. Patrick snickered.

"Have you seen how fair I am, man? I get sunburnt if I get near an open oven. It would be fairly simple to make a kid like me blush."

So it was like that, then.

"Let's make a deal. You come have dinner with me tomorrow. We can see just how red you can get." Pete was using the sexy voice now. This dude wasn't going to get off so easy.

"Is that your best sexy voice?" Patrick murmured low, and Pete calculated that Patrick's Sexy Voice was at least 73% more effective than Pete's Sexy Voice. Awesome.

"Just come to dinner. My apartment....I make a mean lasagna. Just ask Joe. Whaddya say?"

"As long as you don't expect me to put out right after the first date. I'm not that type of guy. Wait...this _is_ a date, right?"

"Sorta, yeah. And you don't put out? _Fuck_."

Patrick managed to say goodbye around his waves of laughter and Pete hung up, grinning lightly to himself before falling asleep on the couch.


	4. Chapter 4

Lasagna was probably Pete's most favourite meal, so much so that he had badgered his mother to teach him how to make it. She had been justifiably shocked that Pete had wanted to absorb the Wisdom of the Lasagna, and Pete even went as far as to learn to make a vegetarian version for Andy; because Andy was spoilt fucking _rotten_. It was his fault, really.

He was just taking a peek into the oven, watching the cheese bubble, and listening to Andy hum contentedly at the kitchen counter, over a slice of the vegetarian one that Pete had just pulled out. He heard the doorbell ring, and exchanged a grin with Andy, walking quickly to the door and running a hand over his hair (he had finally succumbed to the barber and shorn it low, getting rid of that sweet mullet...much to Andy's mock disappointment.)

As he opened the door though, that fucker Joe simply barreled in, muttering, "I heard there would be lasagna," and sped past Pete before he could lock the door. He headed straight to Andy, and began to harrang him for his plate.

"Dude. What the fuck?" Pete cried, shutting the door with a slam; Joe ignored him as Andy laughingly held the plate of lasagna away, spinning and swooping and nearly spilling the whole thing on the floor. Amidst the noise, the phone rang and Pete answered in a tone of desperation.

"Yes?!"

"Pete."

"Patrick, do _not_ tell me that you can't make it. Don't you _dare_."

"Sure, Pete. But could you let me in? I sort of feel embarrassed here with a face full of slammed door."

Pete stood absolutely still for about a second, and then walked over to the offending door, still with the phone pressed to his ear. He opened it and Patrick stood at the threshold with a cellphone to his own head, his cap pushed askew.

"Sorry 'bout that," Pete breathed, finally getting an up-close view of those eyes. Yeah. _Those_ eyes.

"Thats okay," Patrick replied, more into the phone than to Pete, then flipped the phone shut and simultaneously flipped Pete a smile. Pete felt just a bit light-headed. Okay. A lot.

"Joe brought me over," Patrick explained as Pete stepped aside and let him in. "My father didn't want to lend me his car, so we took a cab."

"I would have come for you," Pete offered graciously, studiously overlooking Andy's look of shock. Pete wasn't exactly the best of persons to trust behind the wheel. Joe took advantage of Andy goggling to jab a fork into his food and shovel it down his throat. Pete sighed.

"Come on, guys. Let's eat."

***

Turned out that Patrick didn't eat meat, either, and it was a lucky thing that he had made a lot of the vegetarian one. He tried not to stare at Patrick as he ate. That was rude. But if it was so, then Patrick was pretty rude too, because he felt the severe weight of Patrick's eyes, now a strange grey-blue, resting on him as he moved the fork back and forth to his mouth.

Joe ate like a man who hadn't seen real food in a while; maybe he just returned from a deserted island.

"Oh man," he groaned, his mouth full. "This is almost as good as my mother's."

"It is," Patrick agreed, finally managing to catch Pete's eyes with his own. Pete had been desperately trying not to look at him, because if he did, he wouldn't be able to look away. Like _now_. "His mother's lasagna has already caused wars. So this is awesome."

"Thanks," Pete replied quietly, and tried his best to break the gaze, but Patrick held on to it, so Pete let him.

Andy was looking surreptiously at the lengthy stare passing between them, and then got up, stretching slightly.

"Pete, that was good, dude. Hey, Joe...there's some sort of convention going on at the Centre."

"Yeah? What about?" Joe was licking his plate, and eyeing Pete's share.

"Star Wars vs Star Trek...I don't know if you want to-"

Joe bounced up out of his seat, grabbed his plate, put in the sink, and grabbed Andy by the arm. Patrick blinked and laughed at Joe's flurry, finally releasing Pete from whatever weird spell he had locked him under.

"Shit, I nearly _forgot_ about that. Come on, dude. Why aren't we _there_ yet?"

"You're WELCOME!" Pete bellowed at Joe's retreating back, and Andy grinned, grabbing the keys to the battered van.

"Thanks, Pete...later, Patrick. Nice to finally meet the kid Pete's been mooning over."

Patrick fixed that unrelenting gaze back on Pete as the door closed.

"So. You've been mooning over me. I knew it."

"No, man. Not really." Pete got up quickly, taking up Patrick's empty plate with his and placing them both in the sink. He bent down and opened a drawer, fishing out the foil to cover the rest of the lasagna. Patrick took the slim box from him as he himself stood up, their fingers brushing.

"You haven't? Well...I've been thinking of you since you yelled at me over the phone when you were sick."

Pete gaped at him. Patrick was blushing, his eyes averted as he pulled out the foil, tore it, and pressed it over and around one of the dishes. He came nearer to Pete to deal with the other glass-dish, and Pete reached out to him as he finished, grabbed him by the front of that black t-shirt and pulled him in.

He put his mouth on Patrick's before he even realised what he meant to do, and Patrick opened his mouth in what was either surprise or enthusiasm; Pete was assured that it was the latter as he felt Patrick's tongue sneak out and lick this incredibly hot line across his bottom lip. Pete stepped forward and Patrick stepped backward, not breaking the contact between their mouths as they did this weird dance that ended up with Patrick pressed against the kitchen wall and Pete pressed up against him.

Pete felt Patrick's hands move up and cup Pete's face, angling his jaw to deepen the kiss. Pete groaned and grabbed onto Patrick's hips, trying to find some anchor so he could get some _control_ over all of this. He broke the kiss and pulled away, looking dazed at Patrick's reddened lower lip; where did he get such a full mouth?

"I just met you. _Really_ , Patrick," Pete tried to explain and Patrick went in for the kill again.

"I suppose so," Patrick replied, dangerously close to his mouth, and Pete shivered as their mouths brushed. "But basically I've known you all my life. I was just waiting to meet you."

"That is _the_ most cheesiest line I have ever heard." Pete moved his head slightly from side to side, allowing their lips to brush more.

Patrick grinned.

"Got you hooked, though. Admit it."

Pete admitted it.


	5. Chapter 5

Talking to Patrick on The Phone versus Making Out with Patrick.

Hmm.

Both _very_ enjoyable activities.

Pete wasn't quite sure at any point which he preferred most.

He really loved arguing with him over the virtues of The Artist Formerly and Now Again Known as Prince and his fetish for the colour purple.

On the other hand, finding himself breathing shallowly as Patrick peppered kisses on his jawline.

Yeah.

That was good.

Meeting Patrick's mom and stepfather after a few weeks was excellent...although they seemed to be a little over-protective of Patrick at first. It was like they gazed at Pete with eyes drenched in suspicion until Patrick quietly said to them, "He's okay. I promise you that." A look passed between all three of them, some psychic memo was dispensed, and that look of misgiving disappeared. They questioned Pete about the part-time job he had gotten in his grandfather's office, his plans for post-grad, and what he wanted to do with Arma.

"This one. I like him," Patrick's mother stated simply, and Patrick grinned.

"So I met your parents," Pete said, when Patrick called later. "Is this official or what?"

"Official? What kind of bureaucratic relationship is this?"

"At least you called it a relationship. When are you coming over?"

"You just want to hold me down. I _really_ don't think I should come over there."

"Fine. Let me suffer."

Patrick laughed softly and Pete wished he could record that laugh, and set it on replay all through the night.

"Open the door, sucker."

Yes. Very enjoyable activites indeed.

***

"He did _what_?" Pete mumbled into his cellphone. Patrick hadn't called at his usual time, and here it was, nearly one in the morning, and he could hear Patrick trying to control the tremor in his voice. Pete kicked off the covers and sat up, dressed in only his pajama bottoms.

"He hit me, Pete. I-we were arguing about college and shit..and _you_...it was going on for so long. I couldn't deal with it anymore, and I was walking out, and he just punched me in the face. I can't fucking _believe_ it."

"I'm gonna kill him," breathed Pete, and Patrick gave a shuddery laugh.

"It's not gonna be easy for him when my mom and step-dad come back from their cruise. That's the last time I go to his house. I love my parents, but I can't _wait_ to get as far away from my father as possible."

"Where are you, kid?" Pete questioned gently, going to the front door, already knowing the answer.

"Come on," said Patrick as he opened the door and looked at him. "Where else would I go?"

Pete hung up his cellphone and dragged Patrick in, locking the door. He turned on the hallway light and murmured in displeasure. On Patrick's left cheekbone was an angry red swelling, awful against the soft hue of his skin. Pete reached up a hand to touch it and Patrick winced as Pete pressed gently.

"Ok. Come into the kitchen and I'll put some ice on it."

He sat Patrick down at the small kitchen counter, finding the paper towels and sticking some ice into a few. He returned to Patrick, who looked surprisingly childish sitting on the stool in his ever-present cap, legs swinging slightly. He put the cool pack against Patrick's cheek, holding it there. Patrick reached up a hand and wrapped around Pete's wrist, his palm hot and contrasting against the cold in Pete's fist.

"You always make me feel good," he said in a low tone, and then his eyes flashed up at Peter and pinned him. "I want to tell you something. Just so you know, ok?"

"Ok."

Patrick looked at him, a look that was sharp and yet pained at the same time, and begun.

"When I was fourteen, I got a math tutor that was the first crush I ever had. It was bordering on obsession, I think. And he knew, too....and things-things sort of got out of hand...let's just say I led him on, and I got into something I wasn't ready for. It was my fault. And my parents moved here to get away from it all, and my father followed, blaming my mom. Maybe that's why I'm sorta deliberate with you now. I want you, and I don't want you to think its just a game."

The sharp look faded away and Patrick dropped his eyes, staring at Pete's bare tattoo'd chest. The phrase _I want you_ rang through Pete's body...he didn't know where to begin. So he just started.

"First of all. This isn't a game. I don't play that way. Second of all, how _could_ it have been your fault?"

Patrick looked up again, this time with eyes tinged with surprise and slight annoyance.

"Pete. I _totally_ led-"

"Don't give me that. He was your tutor. Older than you. He knew better."

Patrick gave a slight huff and tried to pull away from Pete's hand on his injured cheek, but Pete simply put his other hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the stool. He bent in, ignoring the sensation of the melting ice dripping a tiny river down his arm, and kissed him gently.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Pete-" Patrick begun, his eyes wide and suddenly very damp. Pete kissed him again, that same soft way, and the tears spilled over silently.

"It wasn't your fault," Pete repeated, insisting, and Patrick closed his eyes, actually _crying_ now, and it was the sort of crying that tore Pete up, because it was so quiet and numb....and so _hurt_. Pete would do anything to make him stop. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't."

"Oh, God," Patrick whispered, and Pete could practically feel the hidden weight he had been carrying around all those years. Pete was saddened; This kid, the one who he had come to associate with The Amazing Smile, was simply fantastic. How could he have walked around with this for so long?

Nothing could ever be his fault.

Nothing bad should _ever_ be allowed to happen to him.

He let go of Patrick, went to throw the ice in the sink and dump the paper towels, and then took his hand, pulling him off the high chair and leading him to his room. He took off his hat, pushed Patrick down on the bed, and Patrick rolled over, curling into a ball; Pete wrapped himself around that scrunched-up shape and kept whispering in his ear.

"Not your fault."

***

Pete woke up very slowly and very pleasantly. It was still dark out, but he could feel the calm weight of Patrick's head on his chest, his hair flyaway and wispy, tickling Pete's nose. Pete was lying flat on his back, which was a position he normally despised, but Patrick was tucked into his side, arm flung around him, which made this just about the best way to sleep, ever. He shifted slightly and immediately Patrick lifted his head and looked at him. Pete was glad to see the swelling had gone down and the redness almost faded away from his cheek.

"Hey."

"Hey. What's up?"

Patrick stretched up and kissed him.

"Thanks. For last night....and thanks for not having morning breath."

Pete laughed out loud, and then it was stifled by Patrick kissing him again. He moaned into Patrick's mouth as the kiss got deeper, and Patrick slid fully onto him, knees pressing into the bed on either side, hands on Pete's face with the thumbs stroking his cheeks. Pete found himself going up onto his elbows, trying to fuse himself into Patrick; trying to sear every sensation into his brain. Patrick pulled back and gazed at him in that intense way he had; Pete was immediately hard, and groaned as Patrick pressed down his hips and ground into him.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered as Patrick sat back and started to remove his own shirt. Patrick tossed away the shirt and started to unbutton his jeans, still staring right into Pete's eyes. Pete didn't know what to do with himself.

"I'm sure about _you_. That's all I need."

Well.

It was outrageous.

And it was mind-blowing.

It was Patrick all over and all around him, damp skin, and sharp inhales.

And it was Pete begging shamelessly for Patrick to _stop, no...no, do it again..oh, that feels too good.  
_  
It was Patrick choking out Pete's name, their bodies melting into each other, their mouths everywhere.

And it was Pete watching Patrick's face as they came, the rising sun casting rays through the blinds onto his face, his eyes fixed on Pete's ( _always_ fixed on Pete), his mouth falling slightly open.

It was outrageously mind-blowing.

"I am _so_ yours," Pete breathed out, reveling in the feel of Patrick's skin against his as they lay back against the pillows, breathing deeply.

"Of course," Patrick replied smugly, and dissolved into giggles as Pete launched a tickle war.

  



	6. Chapter 6

  
Pete didn't want to talk to Patrick right now.

There was a first time for everything, of course, but it was killing Pete. He had something to say to Patrick, and he didn't want to; but he needed to.  
Jesus.

"I am _not_ telling Patrick again that you aren't here," Andy hissed at him through his door for the fifth time, and Pete ignored this, because if he asked Andy to hold off Patrick even more, Andy would nail some lumber over the door and wrap chains around it just to make Pete happy. The thing is, if Patrick decided to come over here, then neither Andy nor lumber nor chains could keep him out.  
Patrick was a very determined person.  


Pete knew that from experience.

It was just this fucking letter he was gazing at in his hand. The letter that he had been waiting for before he met Patrick, and the one he dreaded now that they knew each other.

"Just fucking _tell_ him, Pete," Andy groaned, hanging up the phone for the sixth time. "He's getting pretty pissed."

Patrick being pissed was not such a good thing.  
As a matter of fact, It could be downright unpleasant, because as sweet as Patrick was, Pete had discovered that he could be cold and cutting.  
So.

His cellphone buzzed beside him in the bed and Pete looked at it. It wasn't a call; it was text message.

 _Answer the fucking phone the next time I call. And I don't want to hear Andy answer._

Yeah.  
He was pissed.

The fire-engine red apartment phone blazed again and Pete jumped up to answer it. Might as well tell him. No need to prolong the agony any more. Andy sighed and retreated to his room.

"Yeah?"

"So what's the problem?" Patrick demanded coolly. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"It's not that....I wasn't avoiding you. I was-"

"If you're tired of me already, just spit it out," Patrick snapped and Pete made a noise of annoyance.

"Don't be stupid."

"Don't _call_ me stupid. What the hell am I supposed to think? You're making Andy filter your calls, you haven't spoken to me in three days. You're making me act so fucking _clingy_ , Pete, and you _know_ I'm not that way. I don't _like_ being that way."

"My God, Patrick, let me get a word in."

"Fine." There was a chilly silence and Pete could just imagine him tightening his lips into a fine line.  Pete inhaled and spoke on the exhale.

"I got a job offer. In New York. My grandfather made a recommendation to the City Management Office."

"I remember you told me about that application. And you said you would be able to do your Master's at the same time. So?"

Pete rolled his eyes.

"Stop rolling your eyes," Patrick said, "And answer the question."

" _So_ , Patrick, if I take it, I'm gonna be moving to New York. To _live_."

"What about Arma?"

Pete thought that Patrick was asking the entirely wrong questions.

"Well....Andy got a job in Milwaukee, so he's going back there. So Arma, unfortunately, is fucked. There'll be other chances, I love that scene...but that's not the main deal here."

"What is?"

" _Oh_ , don't be so _dense_. Me and you. I....I don't want to leave if it means leaving you. Ok? There. I said it. I would prefer to be around you more than anywhere else."

"That's as close to a declaration of love as you're gonna go, right?" Patrick said, chuckling a little, and Pete groaned.

"Yeah, yeah. You know me already. So you tell me what I do, since I love you so much. _You_ tell me to go or stay."

"Go."

Pete was shocked speechless. He did not see this one coming.

"Go?" He finally managed to breathe out. "What do you mean, ' _go_ '? What happens to us, then?"

"We stay the same, man," Patrick laughed and Pete's blood-pressure was currently at cruising altitude for commercial airplanes. Patrick was driving him up the wall.

"Long distance relationships are always harder to keep up, Patrick."

"And this one won't be, kid," Patrick said, in full chortling mode now, and Pete had to laugh a little grudgingly, simply at the sound. Jeez. "The moment you told me that you applied to a job in New York, I decided to take a chance and make an application to Juilliard. I just got accepted, dude. With a _scholarship_."

"You didn't," Pete whispered, trying hard not to feel overly-ecstatic. Because things this amazing almost never happened to people like him.

"I did. Bachelor of Music, man. So my father can get off my fucking case, and I can do what I really live for."

"Patrick-"

"Did you really think that you could have gotten rid of me so easily? Dude. I'm like stuck on you, now."

Pete smiled and he could feel Patrick's grin reaching to meet it through the wire.

***

"So what are you cooking?" Patrick's voice floated out of the speakerphone near the stove, and Pete had to yell a little, because the receiver was a bit ancient.

"Some spaghetti shit, man. You're gonna hate it. How was class?"

"Not so bad. Voice and Composition are gonna be my strongest subjects, I can tell."

"Good. How soon will you be here? Traffic must be pretty gruesome. I could see it building up on my way from the office."

"It could be worse," Patrick said off-handedly, and Pete grinned as he heard Patrick's key turning sneakily in the lock. He turned down the stove quickly and ran to stand behind the door as it opened. Patrick crept in, his cellphone to his ear, and Pete grabbed him as he closed the door.

Patrick laughed aloud, and they could hear it still coming out of the speakerphone in the kitchen.

"Hey! I'm home." Pete kissed him hungrily after he stated the obvious. He pulled away and looked at Patrick's gleaming eyes.

"Yeah," Pete replied, taking the phone out of his hand and pressing the End button. "You're home."

**Author's Note:**

> I spoke to a person on the phone for 5 years and never met them physically. It made one of the best friendships I ever had.


End file.
